Reconstructing Meredith (28 page)

Eventually, though, I broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. She smiled. So did I. When I pulled her to me again, the kiss lingered. Deepened. Intensified. Eventually, we left the music box on the coffee table and went back into the bedroom.

There would be more time to discuss this. We’d iron out all the details, figure everything out in time. We’d worry about just what it was we were doing and how the hell to do it.

For now, I simply loved her.

About a year later.

“Four of a kind, my friends.” Matt dropped his cards on the table, revealing three kings and a two, which was wild under house rules. “Looks like the boys win again.”

The girls groaned while Matt and I high-fived across the table.

“Surprise, surprise.” Rolling her eyes, Kristen stood and shimmied out of her skintight jeans.

Meredith rose, unbuttoning her own jeans. “I still think they’ve got cards up their sleeves.”

“
What
sleeves?” I gestured at myself, reminding them Matt and I had lost our shirts two hands ago.

“I’m sure the pair of you are cheating somehow,” Kristen muttered, dropping back into her chair in nothing but her bra and panties. “Who’s dealing this one?”

“You are.” Matt set the deck in front of her.

“You know, we could always change the rules up a bit,” Meredith said to Kristen. “Maybe make them put our clothes on whenever they lose.”

“I am not putting your clothes on,” Matt said.

“Pussy,” Kristen muttered.

Matt chuckled. “Shut up and deal.”

I laughed quietly and sipped my drink. Poker night had taken on a life of its own in the last few months. Matt, Krissy, and I still played for money with the neighbors, and Meredith joined in whenever there was an open seat, but we’d started playing by some very different rules at home. Sometimes I wondered why we even bothered with the game. Before long, regardless of who held what cards, all the clothes would be on the floor, and God only knew who’d be fucking who.

Poker night wasn’t the only thing that had taken on a life of its own over the past year. Krissy and I still loved each other, and our relationship was still strong. Matt and Meredith sometimes played together, though it was mostly physical between them. Over time, though, the four of us had evolved into two distinct couples. Still polyamourous, still together, just… different. Kristen and Matt had moved in together a few months ago. After a few bumps in the road while we slowly sorted out our relationship, Meredith and I had hit our stride and worked things out. She was in the process of moving in with me, much to the disgust of both of our cats.

Of the four of us, Meredith was the only one who didn’t know about the diamond solitaire I’d been carrying in the inside pocket of my jacket for the last two weeks. Unbeknownst to Krissy, Matt had one too. It had become almost a running joke between him and me, wondering who would have the balls to propose first.

Soon. It would definitely be soon. Especially if I expected to sleep again in the near future, since this whole thing had kept me up at night for days. Judging by the circles under Matt’s eyes, I wasn’t the only one.

Maybe tonight
, I thought, stealing a glance at Meredith. A few more hands of cards, a few more articles of clothing off, then I’d see if I could talk her into putting on a ring. Maybe Matt would do the same with Krissy.

I grinned to myself. If we timed the weddings just right, this could be one
hell
of a honeymoon.

For now, though, I had a game to win and two nearly naked women to finish stripping.

As Kristen dealt the cards, Meredith looked down at herself and said, “Damn it, if we lose this hand, I’ve only got one more and I’m down to nothing.”

Matt put his hand over his heart and sighed melodramatically. “Oh, what a shame.”

“We can beat them,” Kristen said. “They have to lose sometime.”

“But are we really losing?” I said. “I mean, whoever takes the clothes off, I’d say we’re all winning, you know?”

“Please.” Meredith snorted. “It’s the principle here. I want to win, damn it.”

I winked. “And I rather want you to lose.” She tried to glare at me, but laughed in spite of herself.

Kristen dealt the cards. “Here you go, boys. Those jeans are coming off this round, I can feel it.”

“I don’t fucking think so,” Matt said.

“Amen,” I said. “Because I have a sneaking suspicion it’s those bras that are coming off.”

“Yeah, right.” Meredith looked at her cards. “We’ll just see about that.”

I picked up my hand, and only a well-practiced poker face kept me from grinning.

King. Queen. Jack. Ten. Nine. All spades.

Lauren Gallagher is an abnormal romance writer currently living in the wilds of Omaha, Nebraska. She and her husband, along with a coyote-iguana hybrid and two and a half cats, are thought to be in hiding from the Polynesian Mafia and a debt collector in search of a fine for an overdue book from the Library of Alexandria. Lauren continues to skillfully, if somewhat clumsily, elude them, but continues to have run-ins with her arch nemesis, M/M erotic romance author L. A. Witt. The implementation of Operation: I Don't Think So is expected to resolve that problem soon enough.

Visit Lauren on the Web:

www.loriawitt.com

Twitter - @GallagherWitt

Blog –
http://gallagherwitt.blogspot.com

~*~

Additional Titles

Between Brothers

Light Switch

From Loose Id, LLC:

Damaged Goods

From Samhain Publishing
:

Who's Your Daddy?

All The King's Horses

The Princess and the Porn Star

~*~

“You’ll be fine, babe.” Quinn waved a hand. “You just haven’t worn heels in a while.”

“Right, so should I really be wearing
these
”—I pointed at my feet—“when I haven’t worn anything above two inches in like three years?”

“Just be careful. You’ll be fine.” He shifted his gaze to his iPad. “Especially once you see what you’re dancing with today and tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” He moved his hand rapidly over the screen. “And thanks to your darling assistant’s third degree black belt in Google-Fu, you may now feast your eyes on your dance partner. I present to you”—he turned the iPad around—“the one and only Buck Harder.”

“Buck Harder,” I muttered as I took the iPad from him. “What a name.”

“And what a
body
,” Quinn mused.

Staring at the screen, I said, “Can’t argue with that.” And I couldn’t. Wow. He was… Well, I could see why he’d apparently done so well in his line of work. He was broad-shouldered, tanned, with flawlessly defined, hairless abs. He obviously spent a good chunk of his time at the gym, but he wasn’t huge. Not a bodybuilder or a steroid junkie, just fit. Very,
very
fit.

His thumbs were hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his hands angled just right to direct my attention to his crotch, where the skintight denim clung to at least one reason he’d gone into porn. My God.

I made myself quit staring at his package and instead looked at his face. His sandy blond hair was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled, and those vivid green eyes might have been mesmerizing and knee-weakening if not for the arrogance radiating from them as well as that smarmy grin. Forget what he had in his pants. Something told me his ego was his largest appendage.

“Cute.” I set the iPad down. “Looks like he knows it too.”

“Of course he does.” Quinn scoffed. “He gets to have sex for a living, even if it
is
with women”—he stuck out his tongue—“and he’s one of the most popular and highest earning out of all the other men who have sex for a living. Of course he knows he’s hot!”

“Can’t wait to work with him,” I muttered.

A knock at the door turned both our heads.

Rich opened the door and leaned in. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He tapped his watch. “Ten minutes.”

“I’m on my way.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Quinn held up his phone. “After I make your appointment.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” I started toward the door, still wobbling a little on those ridiculous shoes. “I think I’m going to need it.”

“The way you’re walking?” He snorted. “Honey, I’d better get the paramedics on standby.”

“Oh, shut up. I can walk.”

“Uh-huh.” He snickered. “Have fun with Buck Harder, darling.”

“Shut.
Up.
”

By the time I was out in the hallway outside my dressing room, I was mostly balanced on the shoes. I’d walked in higher, skinnier heels before, and they just took a few minutes to get used to.

All the way to the room where we were rehearsing, I was still sure I’d need that cortisone shot later, but no longer afraid of breaking my neck. Or re-breaking my ankle. All I had to do now was get through this rehearsal, a day or two of shooting and hope the press didn’t go psycho on me for being on-camera with a porn star.

The thought made me roll my eyes. The media was already going to have a collective conniption when the video finally dropped, because right now, no one knew a thing. My comeback album was a closely guarded secret, and everyone involved, myself included, had signed ironclad nondisclosure agreements. One of those “go ahead, tell the media; we’ll sue you for anything they paid you and then some, and don’t think we won’t find out it was you” things.

The secret would be out soon, though. The release was coming up fast, and the video we were shooting tomorrow would drop within a couple of days of the album. The marketing twits said they were aiming for “shock and awe” by breaking out a brand-new Olivia Taylor album and video without any kind of lead-in hype.

“You’ve been off the radar for three years,”
one of the suits had said. Gesturing wildly like marketing guys always did, he’d added,
“Now you’re going to explode back on to the scene.”

My gut told me they just didn’t want to promote anything until they were absolutely sure the album would happen. An artist who was a way better gamble than me had fizzled out midway through recording a highly anticipated third album. She went to rehab—didn’t we all?—and the album never happened, so the record label wasn’t even giving me the chance to embarrass them like that. Not a word to the public until every track was cut and the video was in the can. Even then, total silence until the minute the album dropped.

Probably so they still had a chance to pull it if I did something “outrageously and typically Olivia” and wound up the laughingstock of the tabloids. Again. Which, the bigwigs had reminded me a hundred times over, would be in violation of the ominous morality clause they’d hammered into my contract when they re-signed me this year.

“Fuck up,” it said in not so many words, “and you’re not only dropped, you’re never signing with Risen Star again as long as you fucking live.”

This from the people pairing me up with a porn star.

I rolled my eyes again.

For all the business bullshit and the constant reminders that I’d screwed up before, I was still walking on cloud nine. In stripper heels, maybe, but even that couldn’t put a damper on my excitement about being back in the game. Every step of this album—writing it, recording it, and now this—had been like a dream, taking me back into a world I thought I’d never be a part of again, and I could not
wait
to get back onstage.

That thought made me shiver. The stage. Nothing beat the feeling of singing on a stage.

Yeah, I may not have been thrilled about some aspects of my current situation, and I was worried sick about it all getting yanked out from under me, but I was excited as hell. This was really happening. I was a signed, performing musician again.

When I reached the door to the soundstage, the security guards standing outside gave me a nod and let me in.

The set was still mostly plain plywood and sheetrock, and the room was packed with cameras, crewmen, backup dancers and enormous lights. The air was heavy with coffee, hot electronics, and fresh sawdust, and at least someone in the room must have been outside recently for a prescription smoke break. People shouted over equipment and chatted amongst themselves. Hammers banged. Saws whined. Crew members strode past with stern looks on their faces and coiled extension cords on their shoulders. A small flock of suits loomed in the shadows, peering at everyone and everything over their Starbucks cups. Dancers stretched beside the far wall, people with clipboards muttered and swore, and someone somewhere barked at someone about a missing gel for one of the lights. Typical set for a video.

I smiled to myself. This wasn’t the first shoot we’d done for this video—we’d shot some other footage last week—but walking into a music video set was like coming home. Despite all the chaos and insanity, it took me about three seconds to home in on
him
.

His back was to me. All in black leather, just like me and the backup dancers, but he stood out. I couldn’t put my finger on what set him apart from the other guys. They were all obviously fit, and he was probably just as limber as they were, given his profession, but he still looked…different. Like a runner compared to a swimmer. Just as fit, just as powerful, but honed for a different sport.

Or maybe my brain just couldn’t process him, or who he did or didn’t look like, because whatever his body was designed for, right then it was wrapped in skintight black leather. Nothing but skintight black leather. It covered his broad shoulders. Stretched over his biceps. Coated those narrow hips and that butt like it was painted on.

Holy hell. Sex appeal, indeed.

He was talking to one of the producers, and right at that moment, the producer saw me and gestured over Buck’s shoulder.

Buck turned around.

Oh.

My God.

The camera hadn’t done him any justice. None at all. Even from here, the black leather emphasized his green eyes. He gave me a quick nod and a smile, and damn him, he didn’t look half as cocky as he had in his photos. Just a guy, a regular guy, who happened to be loaded with quiet charisma and a hot body.

There was no pretending he hadn’t seen me. He saw me all right, and he was heading this way, and there was no escaping.

And suddenly my high heels weren’t the biggest threat to my ability to stand.

~*~

The Princess and the Porn Star
is available from Samhain Publishing and all major online retailers.